Archives: Lila Notes

On the kitchen table, a small pile of coins waits. I spin a two‑pound piece; its edge rasps the wood, a moon with a stutter. It wobbles, steadies, falls. I like the brief moment when chance decides nothing at all.

Through the party wall, someone practises scales: hesitant ladders, a shy F sharp. I stand in the hallway and match their climb with my breath. When they stop, the quiet has edges, as if the house is listening back.

The lift lingers a moment between floors, a soft, undecided hum. In the slit where numbers should flip, nothing. I watch my reflection steady in the brushed steel, neither arriving nor leaving. When it moves, everything resumes, slightly rearranged, as if I’d been folded once.

At the zebra crossing, rain has just stopped; the black stripes are glossy; a snail ventures; I stand longer than needed; cars idle; someone behind me sighs; the snail completes its bright journey; we continue, slightly rearranged.

In the attic, a box of old maps. Folds remember hands. Rivers like veins. I trace a route I never took; the paper yields a faint crackle, not refusal exactly, more a reminder that paths bruise when kept closed too long.

I peel an orange over the sink; the air sharpens. Pith threads catch on my nails, small white weather. I think of the hand that first showed me the trick of starting at the navel. Juice runs, uncomplicated news.

In the launderette, the dryers revolve like small planets, socks eclipsing collars. Steam fogs the window; my name wavers in the glass as I write it with a finger, then disappears. I think of how long warmth lingers after we’ve gone.

This morning the wind lifts the curtain and lays it down again, practising entrances. On the sill, a line of dust records where things once were. I drink coffee and try to leave a lighter footprint than yesterday.

In the watchmaker’s window, small faces leaning, hands overlapping. The room smells of metal and tea. The man lifts a loupe, breath held; a screw nods into place. Outside, the hour passes anyway, soft as sleeve-lining.

Overnight a spider has thrown a line from the desk lamp to the bookshelf, a quiet suspension. I reach for the switch, then don’t. How many mornings are held by threads we barely notice. I work around it, handwriting curved to leave room.